Some carried flowers. Others carried quiet moments.
Home always welcomed both with equal joy.
Grandma always chose the longest road.
No one had ever accused her of being lost.
She simply believed that flowers deserved to be greeted one at a time.
With one hand she pulled the little wooden pencil cart.
With the other she carried a bouquet that seemed to become more fragrant every time she stopped to smell it.
Grandpa rode behind her without the slightest complaint.
He wore his travelling coat, a wide hat, and a camera that rarely stayed quiet for long.
Click.
A sunflower bowing in the breeze.
Click.
Grandma smiling at a daisy as though they had met before.
Click.
The shadow of the little wooden pencil cart stretching across the lane.
The lane knew them well.
The baker always left enough room for the cart.
The sparrows hopped to the edge of the fence before it arrived.
Even the old dog beside the mill no longer opened one eye. Saturday had its own familiar sounds.
Near the bridge, a little girl raised her hand.
“Grandma?”
Grandma stopped.
“Why do you pull Grandpa?”
Grandma looked at the flowers.
Grandpa looked through his camera.
Neither answered.
A breeze wandered between them.
Then Grandpa quietly lifted his camera.
Click.
He showed the little girl the photograph.
It wasn’t the flowers.
It wasn’t the cart.
It wasn’t even Grandma.
It was Grandma’s hand holding the flowers while the other hand held the rope.
The little girl stared at the picture for a long moment.
“Oh.”
That was all she said.
The following Saturday, she came back carrying a tiny bunch of wildflowers.
No one noticed whether she smelled them.
Everyone noticed she walked much more slowly.
Grandma smiled but said nothing.
Grandpa took one photograph.
He never showed anyone that one.
After they disappeared around the bend, the little wooden pencil cart looked surprisingly empty without them, as though it had been waiting all week for exactly those two familiar hands to lead it home.
Livora Gracely 
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